


Coffee and Red Ink

by ohwhatamessiam28



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bucky Barnes Feels, Coffee, F/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Reader-Insert, Self-Insert, Soft Bucky Barnes, a short slow burn, an modern au where steve is post-serum size but no one else has been programmed/tortured/or in a war, and sam is a gallery manager who is also an illustrator, bucky is a painter who works as a barista, he fluffy cute and excitable, nat is a photographer who works for a magazine, steve is a poet who works as a bartender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-03 01:56:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13331046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohwhatamessiam28/pseuds/ohwhatamessiam28
Summary: This two-parter was written for a writing challenge on tumblr!You’ve just left behind your friends, family, and old life to move to NYC for your new job, but finding a connection in the bustling, crowded city seems impossible. That is until you meet the barista at the coffee shop 2 blocks away from your apartment.





	1. Lonely

Home had gotten, claustrophobic.

Your relationships felt restricting. Confined by your family, constantly trying to live up to their expectations to prevent disappointing them. Hell, even your friends had become limiting.

Your job was one of the few places you felt you had room to grow at your own pace. While you were suffocating in your personal life, you’d decided to apply for a promotion. Having been a copy editor for a publishing house for almost two years, and you were ready for a change. The news that you got the book editor position strained your relationships even more. But that didn’t matter to you because you got a great job, in New York City.

The promotion gave you the confidence to break away from your routine. Although you’d grown comfortable at home, you were also very lonely. All these people were in your life, ever present reminders of what you were supposed to be or do. Yet, you felt like no one was there. No one truly wanted you to do what was best for you. And it didn’t matter how many people were around you, the intimacy you desperately desired wasn’t present.

Moving to New York alone was the exciting part of breaking out of your comfort zone, but your bank account wasn’t quite equipped to handle it. You found a studio apartment in Brooklyn, not far from the subway you had to ride in to Manhattan, but it was tiny. Yet, you packed your bags and picked up your life.

No one said how hard it would be to find a real connection in the city. Over 8 million people in such close proximity, but within your first couple weeks in the city, no one clicked with you. Sure, your new coworkers were nice and chatty, but there was no after work bonding. No lunches spent getting to know each other. You knew two actual people who lived in the city that you attempted to keep contact with, but they lived in Queens and Hell’s Kitchen.

So you spent your time alone. At first, you could still pretend it was nice, good to have independence. But that went away quickly as you spent every night in, watching TV or working. It made the loneliness you felt at home seem tiny. This loneliness swallowed you whole and left you staring at a blank wall in bed, holding onto your pillow like it was another person. You even caught yourself talking out loud to no one. You needed a friendly face to latch onto, just a person to bond with. But you went on with your life.

A couple weeks later you picked up a new writer for the company. She sent you the first draft of her novel and begged you for some help editing. Needing a day out of the office, you head home but got blocked in on the subway and miss your normal exit. Getting off at the next stop, you decide to just walk the five extra blocks. Knowing the book is 800 pages long, you plan on making a large pot of coffee and nursing it all night long, but you run into a traffic accident that has the street a block away from your apartment blocked off. You turn down the street before it to avoid the accident, and your pace slows as you notice a small coffee shop you’ve never seen before.

Obviously, it’s cheaper for you to go home and drink what you already have, but your feet carry you to the glass door. As you step inside a wave of calm crashes over you, refreshing your tired limbs and pulling you toward the long wooden counter. The place smells like espresso and croissants, and you see a small table that’s perfect for you to work at. As you step up to order you notice that the barista is an incredibly handsome, scruffy haired man and you shift your weight nervously. Even after being in New York for a month, you still aren’t used to how many beautiful people live here. Every time you pass a supermodel or an actor, your jaw drops. And this man looks like he could have both of those careers.

He’s writing something down as you slide a hand across the countertop, and the movement catches his attention momentarily. He doesn’t look up at you, his hand still scribbling on a piece of paper, but he asks, “What can I get ya?”

“Um, just a 12 oz-,” you start as he drops his pen and glances up at you. Your voice dies in your throat, disappearing as you stare at him. The contrast between his dark beard, and his light blue eyes is stark but stunning. You gulp audibly and the corner of the beautiful man’s mouth tugs up into a crooked smirk. Catching yourself, you drop your gaze to the counter and blink quickly. “A 12 oz latte and a chocolate croissant.”

His fingers tap on the cash register and you dig in your purse to find your wallet. “That’ll be $4.50,” you can feel your cheeks flushing under his gaze.

“Oh, uh, isn’t the croissant worth that much alone?” you ask, pulling your card out.

“Yeah, it is. But you look like you need the coffee more than the store needs the money,” he comments, a sly smile framing his words.

“I-, I’ll pay for both,” you stumble, holding your card out.

He takes it from you, reading your name on the card carefully. “You just did,” he smiles and hands the card back to you before tapping on the register again.

“No, no, I can’t let you do that,” you shove your card back towards him.

“Can’t let me do what?” he asks as he grabs a plate and mug.

“What-, what you’re doing. I won’t let you make that for me,” you say, pointing at the chocolate croissant he’s picking up.

“Who said this was for you?” He tilts his head to the side as his gaze narrows. The crinkles that form around his eyes makes you nearly go weak in the knees. “I’m making this for me.”

“Hey lady, get out of the line,” a middle aged man says from behind you. You glance over your shoulder, giving the man an apologetic look.

“Yeah lady.” You turn back to the barista that’s got your heart nearly beating out of your chest. “Go sit down,” he says as he points at the table you were eyeing.

“I-, I don’t-.”

“Seriously?” the angry man says, taking a step toward the counter and nearly shoving you out of the way.

You glare at him, all your politeness having evaporated, and throw your hands up defensively, “I’m going.”

“Right over there,” the barista says, pointing at the table again. You turn your glare on him and he grins victoriously at you. Another barista walks behind him and he shifts his attention from you to the man at the counter, amusement disappearing from his features. “Next.”

* * *

After taking a seat at the small table in the corner of the shop, you pull out the printed draft of the novel you’re editing and a black pen. You’re writing a comment on page three when your generous barista approaches you.

“I warmed up the croissant,” he says as he places the plate and mug in front of you. “And if you have any complaints about your service, you can bring them up with me personally.”

You roll yours eyes at his words, leaning back in your seat, “My complaint is that you wouldn’t take my freaking money.”

“Hold on,” he responds, holding his finger up to you as the other barista calls to him. The young woman calls him Bucky, and you find yourself leaning forward, curiosity pulling at your brain. 

He turns back to you, his brows furrowing as he clasps his hands together in a plea, “My break is in 20 minutes and I’ll be more than happy to sit and listen to all your complaints with my full attention then.” You want to turn him down but the charming smile that transforms his features from brooding and handsome to devilishly enchanting keeps you frozen in your spot, butterflies already tickling your stomach. You pretend to appear angry, but when you don’t respond he winks at you, and you feel a tightening in your chest.

Maybe you finally found a person to have a connection with, or maybe your dumbass fell for a pretty face in less than 15 minutes. But either way, watching him work leaves you wondering what you’ve got yourself into.

* * *

You’re 12 more pages into the draft, making notes on sentence structure and character descriptions, when you hear the chair across from you scrape against the floor. Bucky sits on it backwards and watches you with an amused smirk.

“I see you liked the croissant,” he gestures to the plate specked with crumbs.

“Warming it was a nice touch.” He cracks a smug smile and you fight the urge to roll your eyes as you tuck your pen behind your ear. “But there’s no way I’m leaving here without paying for this.”

“What are ya writing on?” he scoots his chair to the side of the table, getting closer to you.

“It’s um, a book I’m editing for work.”

“Oh, that sounds like a fun job.” When you don’t respond he rambles on. “I mean, anything’s better than having to deal with the asshole public. I get yelled at by at least 3 people a day here, and I’m not even the person who helped them.”

“The publishing world’s filled with assholes, they’re just egotistical writers and our bosses instead of the public. But you do make a killer latte.”

“Thank you,” he grins. “Do you write too?”

“I used to, but it’s been a while.”

“(Y/F&L/N), that sounds like an author’s name to me.”

“That used to be the dream,” you say wistfully, staring at the book in front of you, trying to ignore how smoothly your name rolled off his tongue. How nicely it sounded in his voice. “Stop trying to distract me, Bucky. I’m paying you back for the food.”

“There’s no need for you to do that.”

“It’s not about whether I need to do it, it’s that I’m going to do it.”

“You’re really that set on paying me back, huh?” his eyes twinkle with an idea.

“Yes.”

“Okay then, you can pay me back by going to dinner with me.”

“What?”

“How does tomorrow night sound?”

“Um, excuse me?”

“I’m thinking Thai-, do you like Thai?”

“Slow down there.”

“Or do you like Italian? There’s this amazing spot a few bloc-.”

You cut him off by laying your hand on top of his, his eyes darting to you immediately, and you swear you see a hint of anxiety in them. “You seem like a nice guy, Bucky. And this is kinda, um, too fast, and super forward, and I just moved here-.”

“I could show you around,” he offers, his thumb brushing against your hand. Your heart feels like it might explode in your chest.

“While I appreciate that, I’m still getting settled in. Figuring this place out, and I, I’m not looking for a relationship right now.”

“Oh, okay.” The excitement that crinkled the corner of his eyes disappears.

“I don’t really have any friends here, and I don’t want my first connection in this city to be a rushed romantic thing.”

“I get it.” His hand pulls away from yours as he drops his gaze.

Your shoulders slump as your heart finally slows its beating, and you nearly reach for his hand again. You finally find a goddamn connection in this city and you’re already chasing him away on day one. “It’s has nothing to do with you.”

“You don’t have to talk around it. You can just say no.”

“But I’m not saying no to you, I’m saying no to the situation. I don’t really know you, but you seem sweet and you make a mean latte, and that goes a long way in my book. But right now, well it’s just not a good time.”

He glances up at you, features softening again. “It’s okay to say no.”

“Okay Bucky. It’s a no.”

For now.


	2. Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A month into your friendship with your favorite barista, Bucky Barnes, he invites you to meet his friends. You’ve been denying your feelings for him the whole time, but after spending an evening with him, it becomes clear you can’t hide how you feel anymore.

A month went by while you and Bucky remained friendly. You visited the coffee shop two or three times a week, secretly hoping to run into him. Fortunately, he let you pay for your own food now, and he didn’t bring up going on a date again. He also started accepting the tips you left him. But he continued the trend of taking his break while you were in store and spending it entirely at your table.

And that didn’t bother you one bit.

You’d exchanged phone numbers, but only texted when you’d miss each other at the shop. You learned that he was a struggling artist who’d barely had time to paint a new piece in a month. His friends were all artists as well and had jobs at galleries, magazines, and bars in Brooklyn.  

As your friendship with Bucky grew, the coffee shop became your safe haven and your favorite place to edit. When your boss would get particularly difficult, you knew there was a delicious drink to soothe your frustration, and a sympathetic ear waiting for you there. And to top it off, you were head over heels for Bucky.

His pouty bottom lip, his fluffy head of hair, his scruff covered jawline, his dimpled chin. You couldn’t look at him for too long without getting caught on those features. And whenever he’d turn his attention on you and his kind eyes would crinkle, you felt like the ground had fallen out from under you. His bright blue eyes made you feel like you were flying, like anything was possible. In those moments, you wished you were the only person in the world. You didn’t want to think about him looking at anyone else like he looked at you.

But did you tell him about how you felt?

No.

You fed yourself lies.

That you weren’t ready to take that leap yet. That you needed more good friends and people in your life. That the loneliness that left you clutching a pillow in bed, staring at the wall was  _still_  just that, and not you daydreaming about seeing him next.

Did you want to spend every second of every day talking to him, falling for him?

Of course.

But would you let yourself say it out loud?

No.

You lied and played it off.

You pretended like he was just a friend and your heart didn’t beat twice as fast every time you pushed the front door of the coffee shop open. You knew he saw the cracks in your composure, he was too observant not to. But he let you lie, to yourself and to him.

As you continued building your relationship with Bucky, you started spending more time with some of the other editors at the publishing house. Some days you even got drinks with them after work, and a few of the writers you’d picked up started grabbing lunch with you. You finally felt like you weren’t alone, that there were people who wanted what was best for you.

And that’s when Bucky invited you to meet some of his friends.

It started out just like any other late afternoon, and he was on break having an in depth conversation with you on his next project while you were trying your best to not get lost in his eyes.

“That reminds me, there’s a new show opening at a gallery my friend manages on Friday. Sam got like six pieces that our friend, Natasha, created in it and she begged me to invite people,” he says, as he pulls a small flyer out of his back pocket.

You take the piece of paper from him, reading it carefully. The gallery is only six blocks away from your apartment, and you are interested in meeting more people in Brooklyn. But going to a gallery opening with Bucky sounded kinda like a date, and you still didn’t know how Bucky felt about you. Sure, he’d asked you out on day one, but you wanted your connection to last. And as beautiful and charming as Bucky is, you had learned that he dated rather casually. He’d brought up a few different girls to you over the last month, and you’d listen attentively and give him the advice he asked for. But casual wasn’t what you were looking for then, and after all this time, you knew it sure as hell wasn’t something you could do now.

“So, do you think you’ll be able to come?” he asks, his eyes watching you closely as you continue to stare at the flyer.

“Um, it sounds kinda cool,” you shrug. That’s a lie, a gallery opening is the perfect way for you to spend a Friday night, especially because it implies that you won’t be alone.

“Come on, (Y/N). I think you’ll really like my friends, and I never get to see you out of this place.”

“There’s a reason for that,” you remind him, your focus zeroing in on how his bottom lip juts out as he pouts.

“I know you’re being cautious, and you said it’s a no on the dating thing.” That was a truth that had warped into a lie not long after your first meeting. And you’d clung to that lie so hard you were pretty sure you’d convinced both him and yourself that anything more between you two wouldn’t work out. Your conscious warned you to be careful still, to keep your most solid friendship in New York safe. But your subconscious already longed for a relationship with Bucky. You’d been waking up in the middle of night from dreams that his face, hands, and lips graced.

His brows furrow as he continues to beg for your company, “But I promise this will only be a friend thing, and I’ll be on my best behavior.”

“You promise it’s just a friend thing?” He nods quickly, desperation seeping into his baby blues. “Okay, I’ll go.”

“Good,” he breaks into a victorious grin. His hand captures yours on the table and your heart leaps into your throat, cutting off your ability to speak. “You’re gonna love the artwork and my friends! It’s such a nice, fresh collection and everyone’s gonna be so happy to meet you. And I swear I won’t flirt with you too much.”

“Bucky, don’t make me regret this.” A carefully constructed lie delivered as you withdrew your hand from his. Trying to sell the ruse with your whole being, yet you couldn’t imagine anything better than a flirty Bucky.

“You won’t.”

“I’m holding you to that.” Another lie, because you were already regretting it. You knew you were a good liar, but you weren’t a great one. And there was no way you could spend a night out with him and keep your feelings hidden.

* * *

Friday came too quickly.

Bucky sends you a text two hours before the opening to ask if you’re still coming, and your fingers hesitate over the screen. A part of you keeps saying that tonight is a bad idea, but you type back, “Yes.” He responds with a smiling emoji.

Not sure if there’s a dress code for the evening, you try to balance classy and casual with a short, maroon dress, a pair of heels, and top it with a leather jacket. Walking to the gallery in heels is probably the worst decision you could have made, but you manage to get there fifteen minutes after the night was supposed to start.

You let out a deep breath as you pull open the front door of the gallery, your nerves already crawling up your throat and threatening to make you turn around. Fortunately, you only stand in the entrance of the gallery for a few seconds before Bucky spots you.

He cuts through a group of people to reach you, and it gives you just the appropriate amount of time to take in what he’s wearing. You’re not used to seeing him in anything but his work shirt, plain pants, and apron, so his black jeans, white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and nice black combat boots are a pleasant surprise. Not too dressy or too casual, so you don’t look out of place after all.

When he finally makes it to you, he greets you with a dreamy smile, his eyes softening as you smile back at him. He pulls you into a hug, and after a moment of surprise, you hug him back. He smells like just the perfect mix of a fresh aftershave and a clean yet woodsy cologne, but the scent of coffee still lingers in his hair. His body is firm against yours, and you close your eyes for only a second, reveling in how nicely his warmth feels.

He pulls away, and you gently slip your hands down his biceps before clasping them in front of you. “God (Y/N), you look amazing.”

“Uh thanks,” you can feel your cheeks flush. “You look nice too.” Your first lie of the night, and a major understatement. He looks beyond great, his jeans fitting him just perfectly and he’s gelled a little of his hair back so it’s not as fluffy as usual.

You two stare at each other awkwardly, anxiety and excitement nearly sparking in the air around you. He breaks the silence first, gesturing to the group of people over his shoulder who are watching you two like you’re on a reality TV show, “I should introduce you to my friends.”

Bucky steps to your side and gently slips a hand down your back before ushering you toward his group of ridiculously attractive friends. There’s a good amount of people walking around the gallery, taking in several pieces, but you’re lead to the group directly in the middle of everyone.

“Guys this is (Y/N),” Bucky starts, his hand lingers on the small of your back. “(Y/N), this is Natasha, a photographer and one of the artists of the night.”

“Call me Nat,” the redhead with stunning greenish-blue eyes and fair skin says, extending her hand out for you to shake. “It’s nice to finally meet you after all we’ve heard.”

Your eyes go wide as you take her hand in your own, “Bucky told you about me?” Nat smiles as she shakes your hand and you notice how the expression transforms her features completely.

“He hasn’t shut up about you in a month,” a tall man cuts in, his skin a warm brown that matches his kind eyes perfectly. Your eyes shoot to Bucky as you release Nat’s hand, and you catch the blush darkening his cheeks as his gaze drops to the floor. His hand leaves your back, and you instantly miss the tiny piece of contact. “I’m Sam by the way. I manage this place,” the man continues, pulling your attention away from your suddenly flustered friend.

“I haven’t had a chance to look around yet, but from what I’ve seen this place is amazing,” you respond, shaking Sam’s hand.

“I like you,” he smiles genuinely, his easy friendliness somehow calming your nerves almost immediately.

Bucky swallows his embarrassment and finishes his introduction, “And last but not least, this is Steve, our recently returned poet.”

A large blond man, with a slightly darker, trim beard grins at you, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” His blue eyes sparkle as you stare into them, almost rivaling Bucky’s.

“I want to hear all about how you turned down Mr. Blue Steel over here. I’ve never met anyone who could say no to Bucky,” Sam teases as someone waves at him from across the room. “But I am working tonight, so I’ll be back for all the details later.”

“And that’s my cue to get drinks,” Nat adds before pointing to Steve, “Your usual?”

“Yeah, but make it a single. I do have to work tonight,” he answers, his brows raising with his slight tone of sass.

Nat turns to you, “Anything I can get you?”

“A whiskey ginger.”

“I’ll come with,” Bucky announces before he leaves you and Chris alone with a polite smile.

You clasp your hands in front of you again, unsure of what to say to Chris. Luckily, he picks up on your uncertainty and does his best to keep you engaged. “So I hear you’re a book editor?”

“I am,” you nod, not entirely sure where he’s going with that. “Do you have a book you want edited?”

“Oh, no no,” the way he shakes his head shows his modesty, but you pay closer attention to the way his shoulders pull against the fabric of his shirt. “I mean, I’m working on putting together a book, but it’s nowhere near the point of editing or publishing.”

“Ah, okay.”

“Do you write too?” he asks, taking a step closer to you as a couple people push past him.

“I uh, I used to.”

“Prose or poetry?”

“Prose, primarily fiction, but I dabbled in non fiction too.” Bucky knew a little about your history with writing, but you rarely elaborated with more than one word answers with him. Not because you minded talking about it, more so because you knew he’d encourage you to start again. And the only thing you could imagine writing about, was him.

“Why’d ya stop?”

“I guess my inspiration just dried up. Personal life got in the way.”

“Do you think you’ll start again, now that you’re here?”

“I don’t know, I’ll just have to see what happens.”

“I gotcha. I went through something similar,” Steve says, shrugging as he decides to stop interrogating you. “I choose to pursue investigative journalism instead of poetry, like I’d always wanted, and I ended up alone in D.C. doing grunt work for a newspaper I didn’t even like reading. It took all that for me to realize that I didn’t have to search for truth and justice. I had it in front of me the whole time, and I could write it however I wanted to.”

He stops to catch you watching him with intrigue, and drops your gaze in moment of shyness. “Sorry,” you shake your head, worrying that he thinks you’re interested in him in a romantic way now that you’ve been staring at him for too long. And honestly, if you weren’t aggressively pining after Bucky, you’d probably be more than willing to go out with Steve. But as he was talking, you noticed how the space between his eyebrows stayed pinched, and you wished you could just smooth out that tension.

“You don’t need to apologize, I just-, I know how much Bucky has talked about you in the last month. He’s always telling us how good of a listener you are, and how he’s dying to know what you’re thinking when he’s rambling. Now I know what he’s talking about.”

You give Steve a small smile, trying not to get stuck on the fact that Bucky really does talk about you. “So, how did you all meet?”

“I’ve known Bucky since we were kids, and I met Nat and Sam in college.”

“I had Poli-Sci with this tiny blond dude freshman year,” Nat cuts in, arriving with drinks. “And he loved to talk about government scandals and how the media shaped public opinion.”

“I was enthusiastic… and much smaller,” Steve explains, taking his glass from Nat.

“And he’s stayed enthusiastic, it just took three more years for him to finally hit his growth spurt,” Bucky jokes as he hands you a whiskey ginger.

“You didn’t get this big until you were 22?” you ask.

“Yeah, kinda.” he shrugs.

“Sam still swears it was a reaction to a weird chemical spill or that someone mixed steroids into his cereal every morning,” Bucky continues as you take in Steve’s height and build for the second time that night.

“My money’s on the steroids,” Nat winks at you before taking a sip of her drink.

* * *

Bucky was right.

You liked his friends a lot.

Nat was the mom of the bunch, and you could tell that she loved teasing the boys about anything and everything. It was her way of showing affection besides taking care of them. Sam was the showman, the entertainer. He commanded the room without even trying and people were automatically drawn to his charisma. Steve was the confidant, he knew everyone’s secrets and everyone came to rely on him. You’d consider calling him the dad of the group from his dumb puns alone, but something inside him seemed on edge, not nearly relaxed enough to fully carry the mantle of dad friend. You weren’t sure what that left Bucky as. Based on their dynamics he was the goofy nerd, but also the creative and adventurous one. They all looked to him for his opinion on the work on display, but also nudged him to make a few bad jokes about some of the more ridiculous pieces.

Sam is off selling a couple sculptures to some patrons while Steve and Bucky get drink refills. Which leaves you with Nat. She leads you through the six photos she has on display, two of them having already sold. She hesitates at the last image of hers, and you’re not sure what to think about it. It’s vibrant with colors and contrast, and the more you stare at it the better you’re able to pick apart the pieces.

“You know, Bucky helped me put this one together,” she comments as you take a step closer to the photo.

“There’s a lot of coffee cups in there,” you answer, not even bothering to count how many. The focal point of the image is a red velvet couch, half of its seat and the entire floor around it are covered in disposable coffee cups and ceramic mugs. There’s a small wooden table next to the couch and it has a half closed laptop on it, and a bound stack of papers with a red pen on it.

“It was his idea actually.”

The wall behind the couch is covered with white pages with red ink on them. “That’s love poetry, right?” you ask, making out a Pablo Neruda poem.

“Yeah, Steve shared some of his favorites and then even let me use some of his original stuff.”

“I really like it, it’s a group effort.”

“What do you think it’s about?” she asks, and you turn to find her chewing on her bottom lip.

You let out a sigh, not sure how she’ll like your answer but deciding to be honest. “It evokes the feelings of desperation, exhaustion, and love to me. Like someone doing what they love, in this case writing or creating something, but time’s going by and they’re fighting how tired they are. And the end result seems small, like the work doesn’t reflect the time and effort put into it, but regardless it’s what that person loves and will continue to do.”

As you finish speaking you turn to Nat, finding a smirk on her lips. “I like that, but that’s not what it was about. At all.”

“Then what’s it about?”

Her smirk grows into a grin. “It’s about you.”

* * *

A coworker of Sam’s takes over sorting and closing the gallery down when the group decides to leave for the bar Steve works at. It’s only a two block walk from the gallery, but the amount of conversation the group gets into in that short distance is ridiculous. Jokes about college and the art scene. Discussion on Sam’s current girlfriend, who he’s seriously considering proposing to. The group pestering Nat on who she’s seeing at the moment, the girlfriend they met three weeks ago or the boyfriend Steve ran into a week ago. And then that turns into her bugging Steve about dating anyone, at all.

While you listen and laugh along with them all, you’re still stuck in your head, thinking about what Nat said. She didn’t expand on what the piece meant in her mind, or in Bucky’s. She wanted you to figure it out yourself. She gave you a hint that the stacks of coffee cups were about the setting and the bound pages were a manuscript. You could put together that the red pen was a symbol of you editing, but you had no idea what the love poetry meant. And if you were the one using the red pen, did that mean you were supposed to be the one who covered the walls with poetry? Did that mean that Bucky knew you were falling in love with him?

As the front door of the bar gets yanked open, you notice how Bucky’s watching you, concern pinching his brows. “You okay?” he whispers, staying close.

“Yes. I’m just thinking.”

The group takes up several stools at the bar as Steve ducks behind it. The place isn’t fully packed yet, but most of the tables and booths are filled.

“Another whiskey ginger?” Steve asks as he leans onto the counter to look down at you.

“I’m sticking to beer now. I have a little bit of a walk home.” Steve nods and lets you tell him what brand as Sam bursts out in laughter next to you.

Once the group calms down from whatever joke Nat made, Sam swivels to you. “So (Y/N), tell me how you said no to that dumb, beautiful face,” he begins as he points at Bucky. “I need every detail, your internal monologue, the way Bucky looked. I need it all. I’m still pissed I couldn’t be there so I need you to give me this experience like I was.”

“Alright, well I ended up in the coffee shop by accident. I had a draft to edit for a new client and intended to just go home and make a large pot, but it was like fate pulled me to that place.”

Steve sets a drink in front of Sam and Nat, and Sam takes a sip before turning back to you, “You’re off to good start.”

“So I walk in, trying to feel the place out. It’s a calming little shop, and it helps my nerves a lot. I walk up to the counter and Bucky’s standing there at the register, but he doesn’t see me. I can tell he’s kinda cute from the little bit of his face I could see, but he’s too busy writing something down to notice me. I had to slide my hand over the countertop to get his attention, and even then he didn’t look up at me.”

“He can be a bit oblivious,” Steve comments as he places your beer in front of you. You catch Bucky rolling his eyes next to you, but take a drink before you continue with the story.

“So he tells me to order and I start to when he finally decides to look up at me, and my voice literally died in my throat.”

“It’s those baby blues,” Sam grins, looking past you to see Bucky.

“Exactly, I thought he was kinda cute and then I saw those and I was like never mind on that, we’re past cute. So then I composed myself and finished my order, and Bucky’s got a shit-eating grin on, fully aware that he’s fucking handsome.”

“I’m not that narcissistic!” Bucky adds, causing you to glance at him.

“You’re not, but babe, you know you’re good looking and you totally ate up my stunned moment,” you say, gently brushing a finger against his cheek as the whiskey finally affects your confidence. His eyes follow your hand as you bring it back to the counter. “So I pull out my card to pay, and Bucky tries to only charge me for the croissant I ordered.”

“Free coffee is a good move,” Nat nods at Bucky.

“And when I put up a fuss, he takes my card from me, reads my name from it and then hands it back. Doesn’t swipe it or charge me. Just tells me I’ve already paid as he hands it back to me.”

“This little shit, right?” Sam asks, his eyes wide as he looks at Bucky.

“You’re right,” you answer as you turn to the beautiful man that you’re fighting your feelings for.

Bucky’s eyes are on you, and you alone as a small smile pulls on the corners of his lips. You hope it’s only the alcohol’s effect, but as you smile back at him, you understand. The love poetry was for you. It was his feelings for you, the exhausted, rapid coffee consuming, book editor sitting at the small wooden table. He’d covered the walls with his love for you. His love was surrounding you and goddammit, you couldn’t stop your own feelings from creeping into your gaze, your heart beating faster as you watched him.

You really weren’t that good of a liar.

* * *

After another hour of conversation at the bar, you decide to call it a night. Steve pretends like he won’t let you pay, and the glare you turn on him forces the whole group to laugh.

“Hey, most people would be happy to have me cover their tab,” he shrugs as he hands you the receipt.

“Just like most people love talking to you for hours?” Nat asks, cocking her head to the side.

“Yes,” Steve nods at her and she snickers in response. “What?”

“People tell you things because you’re comforting, but also you’re fucking beautiful,” Sam cuts in and elicits another laugh from Nat. “If they stare at you for too long their brains just turn to mush and the alcohol lets it all slide right out of their mouths.”

You can’t help but laugh at Sam while Steve rolls his eyes. Pulling your wallet from your clutch, you find a couple bills to cover it and tell Steve to keep the change. His eyes go wide as he realizes how large the tip is, but he doesn’t turn you down.

“Why don’t you walk (Y/N) home, Buck?” Steve asks quietly, side eyeing his best friend.

“Yeah, don’t make the pretty lady fend off catcallers by herself tonight,” Nat leans against the bar.

“We just made a new friend Barnes, gotta make sure she gets home safely if we want to hang out again,” Sam pushes as you slide off your bar stool.

“I’m going guys, Jesus,” Bucky says before he polishes off his drink and throws money on the counter. Nat and Sam both get up to hug you goodnight, and the way they look at you and Bucky says that they hope one of you makes a goddamn move.

You wave goodbye to Steve as Bucky holds the door open for you, and as you step into the cooler air you pull your jacket tighter around you.

“How many blocks is it?” he asks, his step falling in with yours.

“About 8.”

“Lead the way.”

* * *

Your conversation on how the night went and how much you like Bucky’s friends dies down as you reach your block. “I had a really good time tonight,” you tell him as you walk toward your door.

“I’m happy you came out.”

“I am too.” You stop in front of the building’s entrance and turn on your heels.

Bucky nearly bumps into you but catches himself in just enough time. He brushes a hand through his hair, making you think he might be nervous. “I think everyone else was too.”

“I’m not used to you being that quiet.”

His gaze meets yours, and even in shadowy darkness his eyes are breathtaking. “I’m-, I’m not usually. I promised I’d be on good behavior, remember?”

“I remember.  _And_  you did your best not to hit on me.”

“That definitely was not easy.” You bite down on your lip as a grin breaks across your face. Bucky’s eyes watch your mouth for a moment, and although it’s dark you could almost swear he’s blushing. He brings his focus back to your eyes as he licks his bottom lip, “Do ya think you’d be willing to go out with the group again?”

Your heartbeat speeds as you try not to focus on his mouth or his eyes too much. There’s no need for you to melt on the sidewalk. “I absolutely would.”

“Good,” it’s his turn to break into a smile.

“Thanks for walking me home, I really appreciate it.”

“Anytime.”

Silence hangs in the air between you two and you can’t stop thinking about the love poetry in Nat’s photo.

His feelings for you.

The way he looked at you on day one and the way he looked at you tonight. Somehow they were both the same gaze of adoration and you just couldn’t see it. You weren’t ready to admit it, but now you are.

“Goodnight, (Y/N),” Bucky says, giving you a small nod.

“Goodnight Bucky.”

Neither of you move.

The longer you stare at him, the more sure you are. Drowning in his eyes, you feel your body lean toward him, your hand reaching for his shoulder. Your feelings take over, pulling your lips to his. You want to get lost in this moment. The instant you give in and stop caring.

You close your eyes, anticipating the kiss as you feel his hand ghost your hip.

Except your mouth finds his cheek, scruff scratching your lips.

Bucky’s hand gently guides you away from him and you open your eyes to find that he’s turned his head so you wouldn’t kiss. You feel your brows furrowing with confusion as he takes a step back from you. “I’ll see you,” he throws over his shoulder before he disappears down the dark street.

Well shit.

Maybe you were wrong after all.

* * *

After Bucky rejected your kiss you spent the rest of the weekend curled into a ball on your bed, binge watching TV.

You were so sure he felt the same. So sure it was safe to make a move. You had friends now, people who you liked and trusted. You weren’t alone anymore.

But you couldn’t erase the pain in your chest that started when you watched Bucky vanish.

You avoided the coffee shop Monday, still not sure if you could handle seeing him. You didn’t think you could ignore what happened Friday night, and bringing it up would only break your heart more.

When Tuesday morning rolls around, you try to make a cup of coffee but realize you don’t have enough left to make a decent one. Knowing he usually works Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings while he works Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, you decide it’ll be safe for you to stop by the shop. You get ready in a hurry, trying to leave enough time to get your coffee and get to your subway stop.

You walk into the shop, your nerves tingling like static under your skin. Another barista is working the register and you let out a deep breath of relief. He isn’t here.

As you step up to the counter you tell the young woman your usual order, and just as you begin to dig for your wallet you hear his scratchy sigh. Holding in the groan that desperately wants to escape your throat, you duck your head down and search through your purse. There’s no wallet to be found. The barista is trying her best to appear patient but the line behind you only gets longer.

“She’s good, I got her,” Bucky cuts in. You squeeze your eyes shut, praying you could just disappear on the spot.

“You sure?” she asks him.

He answers her with a chuckle, “Yep, she’s covered.”

You move out of line and toward the pick up area, feeling his eyes on you. You just want to ignore him. You know the second you look into his eyes, you’ll break.

“(Y/N).” Bucky says your name softly, fully aware that you’re waiting to get the hell out of there.

You keep your eyes down and place a hand on top of the cup. Just as you start to pick it up, his hand covers yours. Your eyes shoot up, finally meeting his, and he’s wearing a frown as he watches you.

“I’m sorry for how Friday night ended.” You stare at him blankly, trying to keep yourself in check. “I wanted to kiss you, I really did. But I didn’t want our first kiss to happen like that, with you bordering on drunk. I wanted it to be special.”

“It would have been plenty special to me,” you answer, dropping your eyes back to the counter. You want to be mad at him, but you can’t.

“I’m not saying it wouldn’t have been special. Jesus, I’ve literally wanted to kiss you since the first day I saw you, but I want it to be perfect. Bordering on magical. Just like how I wanted out first date to be.” You can’t stop yourself from looking at him.

The barista calls for Bucky but he ignores her. “Look, I know I came onto you really aggressively the first time, and I just wanted to make sure you wanted this too. That doesn’t mean I haven’t been hoping for a second chance, because I have. Hell, I’ve saved every tip you’ve given me, just waiting to spend it on a really nice date, but I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable again. I wanted to make sure you wanted this too, that it wasn’t just the alcohol affecting you.”

“It-, it wasn’t,” you manage, your heart feeling like it’s about to explode.

Bucky’s thumb brushes against yours before he pulls his hand away, “Good.”

He turns back to the countertop, taking the next cup in his hand and filling it with espresso. You take a step toward the door, preparing to go home to get your wallet when a thought crosses your mind.

“Hey, Bucky?” you ask, your hand gripping onto your hot drink.

“Yeah?” he asks, he looks worried but he forces a fake smile.

“Are you busy tomorrow night?”

His eyes light up as a genuine smirk tugs up his lips. “I’m not.”

“Good.” You hesitate, afraid to push the words out. “Why don’t I pay you back by taking you out for dinner?”

The grins that spreads across his face pushes his cheeks up and crinkles the corners of his eyes, making your heart do somersaults in your chest.

“That sounds fantastic.”


End file.
